The Age Of Desire: A Novel Part 18

Anna gasps. "Edith . . . you don't mean that."

"I mean it," she says, her voice so icy it wraps crystals around Anna's heart. Anna can taste tears on her tongue. Her throat burns. It is the kind of silenced inward weeping only a woman who lives a tangential life could know. Poor, dear Teddy!

Anna takes a deep breath and tries to find the even tone she used to use when her students provoked her. "He loves you. He counts on you. You made a vow. You have a responsibility. If we all pursued nothing but happiness, the world would crumble. The ill, the old would be alone with no one to care for them. We'd be adrift in a sea."

"Look at me," Edith says. "Do you see me before you? Well, it's a miracle, because I've been dead for years," Edith says. "Like a ghost. I've been snuffed out by my sense of duty toward Teddy Wharton. I am finally tasting life. How can you ask me to spit it out?"

Anna sits down in the chair by the desk, singed by Edith's incendiary gaze. What can she say? What can she do? She is not equal to the task. "Is Fullerton the sort of man you can trust?" she asks softly after a while.

"He wouldn't lie to me. That's why I know he's not engaged to anyone. I've never met a man more gentle, kind or giving. You don't know what I know about him."

"No," Anna says. "I don't know anything about him." She stands shakily, starts toward the door, then stops. "You should ask him," she says, turning. "Ask him about the engagement. He should know what people are saying about him, even if it's not true."

"Please go," Edith says. "I want to be alone for a while."

Suddenly Anna can't wait to be out of the room. The air in the hall is cool, inviting.

"Tonni?"

"Yes?" She turns back one more time, hoping for an apology, a softening word. Instead she sees that Edith's chin is tilted upward, her face as defiant as ever.

"I deserve to be happy," Edith says. "Even you can't tell me I don't."

Anna stares at her for an icy moment before she pivots and escapes.

Dearest, can I see you in the morning around 9:30? I don't wish to be a bother, but perhaps I can be of use in carrying you to your ministere and we can talk en route. Do say honestly if this is inconvenient.

E.

Edith is disappointed to see that Morton is not in one of his better moods. She knows immediately, even before he speaks. His mouth looks pleasant enough beneath the dark arc of his mustache, but the appearance of two parallel grooves between his brows spell annoyance. She's sorry to catch sight of them now.

"It was good of you to let me see you," she begins in her most cheerful voice.

"What was the hurry?" he asks.

"I didn't think you'd mind a ride to the Times."

"It throws me off. I'm used to the walk. It's my time to sort myself out, to think."

"I'm sorry then . . . I never want to be a bother. . . ."

"I doubt you wanted to see me just to provide a conveyance."

He told me he's never good in the morning, she thinks. I should have waited. Why didn't I wait?

"No. It's just that I've . . . well, I've heard something . . . ," she says. "Something very odd about you . . . And I wanted . . . I needed to ask you about it."

"Go on. . . ." There's malice in his voice. He is not so beautiful when his expression is pinched with annoyance.

"I heard that you're engaged to be married." Edith watches his face carefully, and what she sees unnerves her: his mouth twitches, he swallows before he speaks and he doesn't even break into a smile, as she expected.

"And who am I supposed to be engaged to?" he asks carefully.

"Katherine."

He closes his eyes for a brief moment. As one might when confronted with one's worst fears. And then his face completely transforms, and the change is even more unnerving because it is so patently false, so nonchalant.

"To Katherine? That's absurd."

"Is it?"

"Where did you hear this?"

"It hardly matters. It came from someone who knows your family in Ma.s.sachusetts."

"You know how news gets perverted as it travels. . . . Didn't you play that whisper game as a child?"

"I heard that Katherine's not really your sister."

He licks his lips. "Well, that's true. At least the gossips got that right."

"But she is your cousin?"

"Yes."

"Your first cousin?"

"Yes. Am I on trial?"

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to harangue you."

"Then stop."

He crumples his leather gloves in his hands. And she sees how a pulse twitches in his forehead. She knows he can't wait to get out of her motor. What will happen now? Edith wonders. Why did she even ask him about Katherine? Just the thought of her young, breezy beauty gives Edith a twinge. But what if he does have feelings for Katherine? It's not as though Edith's ever expected him to marry her, even if she were to free herself from Teddy. She's never imagined she'd be lucky enough to have Morton as her lover for more than a blink of an eye. As long as he wants her, pursues her, isn't that enough? And how delicious it's been. Will their beautiful connection now be snapped like an electric wire in a storm, sparks flying? The truth is overrated, she thinks.

They've reached the building where the Times keeps its offices. In the light rain, people on the street have popped open their umbrellas. Through the motorcar window, she watches a parade of them bob along the sidewalk like mourners on their way to a funeral.

Morton touches her hand before he gets out of the car. It should be a comforting touch, but his palm is cold and damp.

"Don't spoil what we have," he says.

When he is gone, she feels grief stricken, foolish, doubtful.

"I'd like to go back home," she tells Cook.

"No errands this morning?" he asks. "I thought you wanted to stop at the bank."

"No errands."

Anna thinks a great deal about happiness after her talk with Edith. And it strikes her as a foreign topic, for it's something she hasn't expected for years. When she was young and just a guest in Aunt Charlotte's house, she deemed happiness something for other people. Her cousins were clearly beloved even though Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Heinrich were stiff and strict. And other children at school with bows in their hair and pet dogs and summer plans all seemed to have a little golden key that opened a door to happiness along their way. When she became a governess, she noted the blooming cheeks of her little charges, how oblivious they were to the dangerous world in which we all reside. They knew they would always be protected with trust funds and family jewels, and significant plans for their futures.

Sometimes in those days, Anna tried to imagine that her life would turn out like Jane Eyre's. Back then, she could see herself as the little orphaned governess who finds love and a new life in her job. But Anna's employers were never handsome, mysterious gentlemen with mad wives in the attic. Just bored married men with tired eyes. Her own happiness came from the offspring of these men, their unspoiled delight at discovering new books, new ideas. And no child ever made her as happy as Edith did.

She doesn't believe she's ever been as close to the precipice as she now feels. Teddy gone. Edith angry at her. She wonders, just as she did the night she was mortified after telling Teddy she would have been proud to have him as a husband, whether she will be orphaned again and have to begin anew at the age of sixty. She imagines ringing a doorbell at a strange house and saying, "I'm here to apply for the position of governess."

Once more, the house is in an uproar, because the lease at 58, rue de Varenne, is nearly up. Edith will soon be moving to Harry's cramped townhouse on the Place des etats-Unis. At first, Harry said he had business in Germany and wouldn't be there at all, but at the last minute, his trip was canceled. So because Harry and his staff will be present, Edith is sending Gross and White home.

"It was crowded enough last year. And it would only be worse this year," she announces to Gross. "We needn't make the same mistake twice." Gross is happy to be returning to Park Avenue. She hasn't been feeling well, and a few weeks of rest are just what she might wish for.

But Anna has no doubt her services will be required. After all, Edith will be in the Sixteenth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt for more than six weeks. She will want to keep writing, although there has been little to show for her efforts lately. Edith is still asking not to be disturbed in the mornings, but only a few half-written pages are left on the floor outside her door these days, when before there were almost more than Anna could type. If this were the only effect of Morton Fullerton on Edith's life, it would be enough for Anna to resent him.

So Anna is stunned when Edith calls her in one afternoon to tell her, "Tonni, perhaps it's best if you go back to Park Avenue with the rest of the staff. There's no need to put you through the cramped accommodations at Harry's. I'm even asking Harry to put up Henry James, which I wish I didn't have to do, but what other choice do I have? Harry's happy to have him, but there will be no room at all."

"Edith . . ." She is momentarily speechless, then composes herself. "I'd be willing to stay in the smallest room in the house, a broom cupboard, if you could find use for me. Surely, there's correspondence to attend to?"

"I can write my own letters for a while," Edith's voice is breezy but oddly strained. She shuffles the letters on her desk, not once raising her face to Anna.

Edith has never sent Anna away before. In fact, if anything, she likes to complain when Anna-as was the case last summer-is gone for reasons of her own. And though her explanation of why the change in plans appears thoughtful, Anna can smell fraudulence.

"Has a reservation been booked for me?" she asks.

"I've told White to book your pa.s.sage."

"I see."

Edith glances up at last. "I think it's best," she says, catching Anna finally with frank eyes. "Don't you?"

TEN.

SPRING 1908.

On Edith's first full day at Harry's, Anna de Noailles is scheduled to visit at 3:30 for tea. All spring, Edith's been inviting her to come to the Rue de Varenne, but despite their best plans, she never did make it. Now Edith will have to entertain La Comtesse at her brother's, which is less than ideal. Overdecorated, over-Americanized, the house embarra.s.ses Edith. Especially in light of the sleek Bohemian sumptuousness of de Noailles's own manse.

And Edith feels both overexcited and miserable. Time has been a loudly ticking clock. Amidst the move to Harry's, Anna's apparent sadness at being sent away and Henry's upcoming arrival, Edith has had no room to reflect, no time to breathe. She is giddy with the pa.s.sion Morton has unearthed in her, yet once again he has been withdrawn: his notes are short, his Times a.s.signments longer. Edith blames Anna for sharing the news about Katherine. And she blames herself. Why did she ask him about it at all? Even if Morton were-and how could he be?-engaged to Katherine, would Edith feel differently about him? Would she love him any less?

As expected, de Noailles is late, and Edith hopes once again a note will arrive saying she's been forced to change her plans. But just at five, when Harry's oversized American grandfather clock starts to chime, the Comtesse sweeps into the parlor, laughing and bright eyed, sporting a beautiful crushed-satin hat the color of Arizona turquoise and a translucent aqua dress with an aqua slip boldly displayed beneath. Edith has never seen clothes like this before, and she can't take her eyes off them. To be so original! To be so fearless! Oh, to be so inimitable as de Noailles!

"Well, look at you, chere Edith," Anna says the moment she and Edith are side by side on Harry's stuffy chesterfield. "You've found yourself a lover!"

"What . . . ," Edith stammers. "What have you heard?" Edith feels the blood rush to her ears.

"Relax. Not a thing. You just look changed. A blind man could see it. Marvelous! Rosa says Mr. Wharton is away. Be an industrious little mouse and have yourself some fun for now is what I say."

"Perhaps we should keep our voices down. My brother isn't here, but his servants might well tell him. . . ."

"Hah!" Anna says. "Who cares what anyone thinks when you look so well? Like you've been sipping a magic tonic! Are you happy?"

"Yes. . . ."

"But a bit miserable too, no? You have to be a bit miserable in love or it doesn't amount to much."

"Really?" Edith is taken aback. This is the last thing she expects to hear from de Noailles, who she a.s.sumes is all about pleasure. The bonne arrives with the tea, taking far too long to set it out on the tea tables in front of the sofa.

"Why does one have to be miserable in love?" Edith asks when the bonne has at last curtsied in her insipid little way and disappeared.

"Well, think about it. Love must come with a soupcon of torment or even a great deal of torment, or how can it leave a lasting mark? What would Romeo and Juliet be without their troubles? The most ordinary fairy tale must have something to keep its lovers apart: someone evil, or a spell, or a nasty little gnome. Well, you're a writer. You know this all too well. If Lily Bart married Lawrence Selden in the first scene of Chez les Heureux du Monde, why would we have bothered to keep on reading?"

"But in real life . . ."

"You don't want a boring lover who wors.h.i.+ps you to your toes. A good lover should distress you a bit. 'Does he really love me? Maybe not. Maybe there is someone else. Someone who gives him more pleasure than I do! Is giving him pleasure this . . . very . . . minute!' Well, you know. It makes you want him more."

"Oh!" Edith says, knocked flat at the thought. She tries to pretend her gasp is a chuckle, but of course, Katherine Fullerton's rose-petal face appears instantly before her.

"A good lover lets you hang on the edge of agony before he takes you to ecstasy. The very act of love, the pleasure of love is enhanced by sheer misery, no?"

Edith parts her lips, understanding what de Noailles is saying. She thinks of the ecstasy she felt in Montfort. If it had been delayed even a moment . . .

"I see your lover does know the power of anguish. He must be French."

"Well, no."

"No? An American?"

"I don't wish to say," Edith says.

"Oh, don't bother. If he's an American I know who it is."

"You do?"

"Of course! It's that boulevardier: Fullerton. Again, a blind man could see it."

"How? How do you know?" Edith is stricken. She and Morton have been too open, too foolis.h.!.+ If de Noailles knows, everyone most know.

"My dear. Enjoy the moment. I would never interfere. I have my secrets too."

"But I must hear. How do you know?" While she's waiting for the Comtesse's answer-for Anna is nibbling at a biscuit and watching Edith with amus.e.m.e.nt, purposely torturing her as her proposed ideal lover might-Edith asks herself if maybe she's a little pleased that her secret is out, that the whole world knows that someone as worldly and handsome and desirable as Fullerton has chosen her.

"Well, how shall I put this?" de Noailles says. "You're rather his type."

Edith is crestfallen. "His type?"